


Speech of the Bard

by ThirthFloor



Series: Some Adventures - Nonlinear or So [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier talks too much, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sleepy Cuddles, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirthFloor/pseuds/ThirthFloor
Summary: Geralt receives some unwelcome treatment in a tavern, and Jaskier is too tired and too fed up to let the words of these bigot villagers slide.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Some Adventures - Nonlinear or So [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711828
Comments: 17
Kudos: 353





	Speech of the Bard

Jaskier paid no mind to the glares of the tavern patrons when they entered. His only focus was on getting some food and getting to bed; after hours of walking in worn out boots, and eventual running when Geralt went off to slay the beast that had been awaiting them in the endless maze of corn, he wanted nothing more than to just lie down. And the Bard couldn’t even imagine how the Witcher must feel.

Geralt barely touched his food, golden eyes surveying the layout of the tavern itself and shining in the light of the hearth. From his position at the corner-most table, he could see the entirety of the space; and in consequence, caught every snide and disgusted glance they received. The Bard’s back was to the room, and none of the looks were directed at him. If so, they were only due to the presence of the Witcher himself.

Turning his head from the impending stares of loud bargoers, Geralt sighed softly before addressing Jaskier. “Eat quickly. I have a feeling our welcome won’t last long.”

The Bard looked up from where he had been hyperfocusing on appreciating every green bean on his plate. “What do you mean?”

An eyeroll accompanied Geralt’s exhale, but he could not blame his companion for his obliviousness; the man exuded sunshine, he probably couldn’t see the glares unless he squinted. Or was told to search for them. “The Bishop of this village couldn’t even look at me. That does not bode well for the people…” He shifted in his seat, sore from the day and tired of all _this_. “And _they_ won’t be restrained by the decorum.”

“They don’t want you here?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows in surprise, those bright blues catching the firelight as he did so. Tone betrayed that he had been well aware the entire time, and now he raised his volume just enough for the other patrons to overhear even as his statement remained directed at the Witcher. “Well, just enjoy your food. The whole lot of them can fuck off.”

A clatter erupted from the bar then, as a stout man – red in the face, with a terrible beard, and drunk off his ass – slammed his mug down on the countertop before striding in a series of wobbles over to them. His voice came with the gravelly discomfort of too many drinks disrupting a reflux. “I’ll _fuck off_ when there’s not a killer in our town!” He gestured broadly, then sharply to the Witcher, who remained seated. “He says he kills monsters? Why hasn’t he gone and killed himself yet, then?”

Grunts and shouts of approval came throughout the tavern, and the man put his hands on his hips, nodding and affirming his statement boastfully. Jaskier’s jaw tightened as he looked to Geralt. Golden eyes stared back, indifference masking whatever emotions he may or may not be feeling, and he shook his head. Instead, he pushed his plate away, resigning to wait out the commotion. Knowing from past experience, Jaskier expected him to wait until the drunks had settled down, and then quietly slip out to sleep near Roach in the stables or elsewhere.

 _That_ pissed Jaskier off. Not Geralt, per say, of course not. It was never his fault.

No, it was the idea of having to sleep outside _again_ due to the opinions of some bigoted villagers. Being denied the simple luxury of a _bed_ , that they _paid_ for – Jaskier would not stand for it again. He was too tired, too sore, and too fed up with both these obnoxious crofters and the push of his own obnoxious feelings for the brooding Witcher before him to sit and _bear_ it.

And Jaskier could get them kicked out just as well as he, so if that came to be the conclusion, then what was the risk?

The Bard sneered, a laugh coming as a scoff on his lips as he munched his last green bean. “Don’t speak too soon, good sir, or I might be tempted to take up the profession myself and rid this town of your ugly mug.” He set his plate aside and stood, facing the room for himself. They grew quiet when he stood, but the energy of the space remained prickly. Jaskier plastered on a smile, obviously sarcastic and bitter, as he began an inadvertent speech. “Excuse me, townspeople of Small-Village-No-Royal-Guard-Cares-Of, who had a Raccorn taking its crops and slaying its farmers for the past three years, do I have your attention?” If he did not before, he certainly did now. Geralt watched the room warily, ready to pull Jaskier back into his seat if need be. “It was that very beast – the Raccorn, of course – who rid you of your coin and bankrupt your churches, who caused your children to go hungry at many-a harvest time? That is _this_ village, and _these_ are its townspeople, correct?”

For a moment, the room was silent, until the only sound was the scraping of stools and chair legs as more men and women stood. The risers were few, but their distaste was apparent. Those who remained seated looked between their neighbours and the Bard, none daring to glance past him to meet eyes with the Witcher.

The same drunk as before shattered the tense air by laughing raucously, drunkenly, mockingly. “You think you can threaten us, Bard? What are you going to do, _sing_?”

“Oh, stuff it,” Jaskier snapped in response, fired up but managing to disregard any urge to brag about his singing. “My _point_ being, _your_ town’s Bishop hired this here Witcher!” He pointed back at Geralt, who looked up indifferently. Golden eyes then remained glued to the Bard. “ _Your_ Bishop hired _him_. No royal guard gave a damn about this poor, shitty village to come to your aid, and they never were going to! You had no _revenue_.”

He took a breath, pausing and watching the room. They remained silent, the aggressors stilled and the others seemingly enraptured. Not accepting just yet, but attentive.

Jaskier continued, now feeling compelled to sway these people, and if not then just throw a few more curses their way. “Because this man risked his own arse for a shithole village, not only will you _not_ starve, but you will have harvests aplenty to satiate your town’s taxes and tithes! _This_ man, by killing that beast, single-handedly saved this village from its economic crisis. And now that _someone_ will give a flying fuck about this place – which will, by then, be reeling in coin from its whatever-the-hell crop harvests – the royal guard will take care of any future problems!” His hands swished this way and that in the air, gesturing broadly and pointedly for any and all emphasis. “So, you won’t need to _worry_ about hiring any more Witchers if you hate them so much! That being said, I suggest you all _turn around_ , shut the _fuck_ up, and let us finish our meal. And maybe, just maybe, give this man a thank you and an apology on his way out. And you?” Jaskier finished with a jab of his pointer finger right at the nose of the huffy drunk who had spoken first. “You can go fuck yourself, because your wife certainly isn’t doing it for you.”

Appreciative laughs resonated throughout the tavern at this last comment, the humour seeming to turn the mood somewhat in their favour. Geralt’s lips quirked up in the semblance of a smile behind his mug, eyes still lifted to watch the Bard. Luckily, no one’s attention had returned to him.

The hefty man blathered, insulted, and he hiccuped as he spoke. “Fuck you, _Bard_! And you as well, _Witcher scum_!” Despite all odds of sobriety against him, the man still managed to successfully spit at their feet before turning to storm off. The effect was ruined by his gut colliding with a table, the patrons there protesting in irritation and shoving him back to his place at the bar.

Jaskier snickered along with the others in encouragement, and once the commonplace volume of the tavern had resumed, he returned to his seat and faced Geralt. His dark brows furrowed in concern, piercing blue eyes searching the Witcher’s face for anything to remedy. “Are you alright?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth lifted in a smirk, self-deprecating and if the Bard so desired, mistakeable for an attempt at a smile. “I’m fine. It’s hardly the first time I’ve been insulted.” He glanced away then, eyes scanning the room before returning to meet the Bard’s. “First time I’ve been defended, though.”

A blush spread across Jaskier’s cheeks as easily as his beam, proud and adorable. He reached out and patted Geralt’s hand, the movement brief but gentle all the same. “Finish up, and we can get you into a nice bath.”

“Hm.”

“Oh, hush. _Eat_ , you killed something today.”

Despite their light bickering while Geralt complied and ate, Jaskier insisted they take their time and enjoy it.

~

Jaskier returned from the barkeep with a room key, sauntering back to fetch the Witcher as he spun the key on his finger. “Ready to head up? He actually gave us the room for normal price. None of the hubbub about double that usually happens when you bother people.”

Geralt stood and exhaled slowly. “I didn’t bother them, I _disturbed_ them. It was unintentional.”

The Bard only grinned in response. “It always is. Come along, now!” He took Geralt’s hand in his own, unabashedly, and the Witcher flinched slightly at the unexpected motion. Jaskier held fast and directed his smile back at his companion before ushering him towards the staircase that would take them to the upper level of the tavern and to the rooms.

Geralt followed, dipping into the stairwell and protesting with a grunt when he was tugged back to the main level. “Jaskier, what…?”

The Bard held up a hand and looked at the tavern, once again quieted, with an expectant expression. “Well? Didn’t I tell you all to say something?”

There was silence, and Geralt shifted back on his feet, tempted to just yank the Bard upstairs and away from this disastrous bout of awkwardness. Instead, he froze when a woman chimed in, “Thank you, Witcher,” and the sentiment was echoed among the guests with varying levels of earnesty.

Jaskier was unsatisfied, putting a finger to his cheek before asking liltingly. “ _And_?”

The barkeep grunted out a response, a rag clenched in his fist and being mopped across the countertop. “We apologise for our inhospitable behaviour.” It was a blanket statement, but said all the same.

“Good!” With a wink, Jaskier bounced on his heels and nudged Geralt back towards the stairs. “Thank you all _so_ much, we’ll be out of your hair tomorrow morning!”

The volume of the main level resumed the further away they got, and it was quiet in the hall that led to the rooms. Geralt waited until they were certainly out of earshot before speaking, his tone low and gruff, but soft in its delivery. “You really didn’t have to do that, Bard.”

Jaskier strode ahead and turned suddenly, stopping Geralt in his tracks. There was a glint in his eyes even as he spoke seriously. “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend.” He poked a finger at his chest. “You risk _your_ life out there for those jackasses, which means you risk something I like very much. So, if people are going to foolishly take that for granted, and by extension, take _me_ for granted, then they’ve got another thing coming.” He raised his finger to gently boop the Witcher’s nose.

That Bard _really_ did talk too damn much.

And he kept on going. “Don’t worry about it, okay? You are cherished here.” His hand came to rest over his heart, his expression soft and endearing and just every sweet, honest expression that had never been used on Geralt until he met this perfect man.

Geralt stared. Jaskier stared back. Just as he opened his mouth to say something more, the Witcher moved quickly to catch those lips in a kiss. It wasn’t exactly a gentle kiss, one that ended up pushing the Bard back against the wall, but it was easier than words. Geralt didn’t know what to say to _that_ , and even if he could think of words, he probably wouldn’t have spoken them. By nature, he acted in favour of speaking.

Jaskier’s squeak of surprise soon dissolved into a soft hum as he kissed back, calmer despite his racing heart. And there was a smug smile plastered on his delightfully pink face when they parted for air. He giggled, “Room first, then you take a bath. _Then_ we can continue this.”

Geralt protested with a growl when the Bard kissed the tip of his nose and wiggled out of his grip, but conceded all the same. Catching a whiff of himself, he agreed: he smelled like death.

~

Jaskier was strumming his lute when Geralt returned from the bath, in fresh clothes and his hair curling slightly as the air dried it. He didn’t break rhythm with the instrument as he smiled up from his position, sitting crisscross on the bed, and Geralt nodded before lying down beside him. He folded an arm behind his head and watched in silence before closing his eyes and letting the soft sounds of the notes fill the small room.

Moments passed, and the Bard was certain that the Witcher had fallen asleep when he spoke, voice low and rumbling with the slurs of exhaustion. “Jaskier, c’mere.” When Jaskier turned his head, Geralt opened his eyes just enough for gold to be seen, and the ghost of a smile pulled at his features. He held his arms out.

Putting the instrument aside immediately, Jaskier smiled and cuddled close, not before sneaking another delicate kiss to his nose, then a softer one on his cheek. His lips barely touched the skin of Geralt’s neck, but he hummed, a deep vibration in his chest all the same. The Bard responded with a teasing whisper, “You tired?”

“Hm. Shut up.” Geralt’s hand made its way to Jaskier’s soft brown hair, fingers scratching lightly, soothingly at his scalp.

Ignoring his command, the Bard grinned and propped himself up on an elbow, touching their foreheads together before their lips connected for a delicate kiss. Jaskier loved when Geralt got sleepy, and spoke quietly not to break whatever tender spell they were under. “I meant everything I said earlier. Especially the last part.” He leaned over Geralt a little to cup his cheeks without falling on top of him. “You _are_ very important to me. Do you understand that?”

“I do, you’ve said it enough.” Geralt hummed once again in response and kissed Jaskier’s temple. “And so are you.”

The Bard blushed and made no hesitation in pressing another firm kiss to his lips, carefully to keep himself from pressing too far. He pulled back with a sigh and stroked his thumb over Geralt’s cheek. “You too tired to continue?”

“You’ll be here in the morning.”

“I have to _walk_ tomorrow, Geralt! You can’t – we can’t do that if you’re going to make me _walk_ all day!”

The Witcher chuckled lightly, more a soft exhale of air than anything. “Would you rather sit on the croup of a horse for the entire day?” Another quiet mirthful sound escaped with his breath when Jaskier’s face scrunched disapprovingly.

“That sounds dreadful, no. Rain check, then.”

Geralt tried not to sound too eager when he suggested in turn, “Then you’ll still be with me tomorrow night. We’ll find time?” It came out more like a question than he intended, but his sleep-fogged mind was too far past filtering himself around the sweet Bard.

The first reply he received sent him further into the depths of sleep with the feather-light feeling of Jaskier’s kiss, first on his lips and then on his forehead. “Of course.” The second reply was the whisper of his smooth voice. And finally, the weight of the bed shifted so that the Bard lay tucked safely beside him.

Or rather, the Witcher was held safely in Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier _had_ defended him today. It would do well to give him the credit of comfort in that regard. And it _was_ a pleasant feeling, far from unwelcomed in the quiet, hushed hours of the night. Geralt did not intend to need to be defended much in the future, but vulnerability in times like this… it was well earned.

**Author's Note:**

> AHHH Thank you so much for reading!! I love writing for these two now...  
> Leave a comment if you liked it! I respond to every one!!  
> Also... I finally made a Twitter! It's nothing special, but come follow me! @thirthfloor


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